


Run for Cover

by aderyn



Series: Compounds or Stars [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221b, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock far from home, references to THoB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are other beds in other rooms, in other cities, beds for the living and beds for the dead." </p>
<p>"What we know is not elusive, John, no matter what the philosophers say. What we feel is elusive, and therefore, sleep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run for Cover

**Author's Note:**

> So Lavellington and I were talking about Phillip Larkin (and our 221B benders),and before you know it,there was a game: Write a 221B based on this bit of “Aubade” below. (She using John’s POV; me, Sherlock’s.) Cheers, Lavellington, and thank you for reminding me that Sherlock is a “crafty bastard”; that takes the angst down a notch. Maybe. :D
> 
> "Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.  
> It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,  
> Have always known, know that we can’t escape,  
> Yet can’t accept..."—Phillip Larkin, "Aubade"

 

There are other beds in other rooms, in other cities, beds for the living and beds for the dead. It helps sometimes, to fall into one, the memory of one, in the boudoirs of the mind palace, a bed all draped in the umbers of home.

When he left London he left gasping, and slept two hours in the back of a car. He’s been lulled and rocked ever since by nothing, dreaming of hands that wrap him up in sheets.

_What we know is not elusive, John, no matter what the philosophers say. What we feel is elusive, and therefore, sleep._

They found a body in a bed once, or more than once.  And in Dartmoor, (windswept; its coordinates were gorgeous), there were twinned beds like isles in a sea of grass.   The moors howled and the dead peered in the windows and John muttered in his sleep.  He looked into the dark and (hands shaking round a glass, drugged into metaphor), saw eyes. 

Twinned beds, sugar, _John, John?_  Forgiveness is the sweetest thing he’s ever known.

In the corner, as dawn’s welling, there might be eyes, or carbon atoms ,snow?  This is a strange bed.  It helps sometimes, to pretend to wake, blinking, at Baker Street (elements on the wall, _John, John?_ ), gazing up at the “B” in boron.

 


End file.
